Placing delicate porcelain figurines in a treasured nativity scene, I let my imagination carry me to a stable in Bethlehem.
As an aggressive young journalist chasing the big story, I hoped for an exclusive interview with a teenage mother—unexpectedly cast in the most significant drama in human history. I’d done extensive research, tracking every tip about two individuals who seemed quite ordinary—Mary and Joseph from Nazareth.
The young woman’s cousin, Elizabeth, confirmed Mary had visited her following a strange occurrence. She said an angel had appeared to Mary—a virgin pledged to marry—announcing she would become pregnant by the Holy Ghost and that the child would be the Son of God. A baby without a human father? Son of God? Could a skeptical journalist believe such preposterous claims?
Several leads sent me to Bethlehem where humanity flooded the streets—droves pouring in from surrounding provinces to pay taxes. I overheard anxious conversations about a young woman who’d passed by and appeared ready to give birth. An innkeeper said the husband had requested a room.
“I had no vacancy!” he said, seemingly frustrated because he couldn’t help. He’d directed the weary travelers to a stable nearby.
Weaving through the commotion, I located the place and paused to consider how this incredible story might impact my career. I sensed an award-winner. Without being offensive, I’d ask tough questions, starting with Joseph. What were you thinking, making this journey with Mary so close to giving birth? There’s a rumor you did not father this child. Any comment? Why should anyone believe that outrageous story about how Mary became pregnant? I’ve heard the baby is the Son of God. What do you say?
Reviewing my notes I started to speak but seemed frozen in time. Something about that historic night—dark yet bathed in brilliance. Something about that young mother—pained yet radiant with joy. Something about that adoring husband—humble yet exploding with pride. Something about that modest manger—rugged yet strangely reverent. Something about that holy child—helpless yet having authority.
An infant king lay wrapped in swaddling clothes. Enveloped in awe, I slipped away without disturbing the royal family. Centuries later in my reality, I’d bow before that King, claiming Him as Savior and Lord.
… Give him the name Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins.
(Photo courtesy of morguefile and earl53.)
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